


A Different Breed of Righteous

by KallinFrost



Category: Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KallinFrost/pseuds/KallinFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constantine didn’t ask questions, he gave answers, and when he talked to Dean, he didn’t lead him astray. When he asked if Dean wanted to stick around for a while, help him out with a few cases after this was done with, Dean said yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I've had this stewing about in my brain for far too long now. So I'm putting it out there. The first chapter is a short forward, and then the second is where we really get going. This isn't brit-picked, so if you see anything unusual or any errors, please let me know! A few notes on canons:  
> Constantine is going to be mostly show, but I've read the comics too, so some stuff will sneak it's way in there, I'm sure.  
> Constantine style Lucifer, rather than the Supernatural one.  
> As we get going, I'm sure I'll make more notes on how certain aspects of canon will mesh as they come up.

The first time Dean Winchester met John Constantine was when he was working one of his first cases on his own. People were dying in a myriad of ways in small-town New Mexico, and his dad had pinned it for a simple curse and sent Dean. If it was a curse, it wasn’t like any Dean had seen or heard of before. He called his dad after the fourth person died.

“I can’t worry about your case right now, Dean, I’ve got my own. There might be a number I can give you, he's dealt with rare magic before... but don't call unless you can't avoid it. The guy's as likely to kill people as save 'em."

Three more bodies later, and Dean dialed the number. “Hello?” It was a deep voice, commanding, and Dean straightened without conscious thought.

“Hey, I’m looking for someone with experience with... weird shit.” If he could think of how else to describe it, he would.

“John!” Dean could hear the phone being passed around, changing hands, along with a vaguely annoyed, but resigned, “Stop giving people my number, John, get your own damn phone.”

“Thanks, Chas,” A lighter timbre chirped, “John Constantine.” The voice addressed the phone now. “Who’s problem am I solving this time, eh?”

“I’m Dean. I’m in New Mexico, and there’s some weird crap going around. I thought it was a spell, but if it is, I can’t figure out how it’s working.”

“How did you get this number?” The voice was wary now. “I can’t think of any Dean who should.”

“My father is John Winchester,” loathe to mention it, Dean tensed, knowing his father’s temper could make things go sour. He relaxed again when John Constantine laughed. A heavy, caustic laugh, but it wasn’t angry, so he’d take what he could.

“So you really must be desperate, then, Dean. Last time I saw your daddy he threatened to, and I quote, ‘put me in a grave I won’t crawl out of’.” Dean frowned, but figured it best not to ask.

“If people weren’t dropping like flies, I wouldn’t have called.” He said instead, his voice harder. If his father hated a man enough to threaten him, Dean usually didn’t like them either. “This is a small town, Constantine, and pretty soon there won’t be any town left.”

“I’ll get there, Deano. Hold the fort or whatever.” Dean was momentarily stunned into silence, and before he could respond the line clicked dead. He tried to call back, but no one answered. He wondered how they’d find him if he hadn’t said where he was.

He’d shown up at his hotel room twelve hours later, and Dean for a moment was struck with an alien feeling. This... was not who he’d been expecting. A skinny sort of man, with messy blond hair and brown eyes, three inches shorter than him but filling the space with personality and sarcasm alone. He didn’t ask questions, he gave answers, and when he talked to Dean, he didn’t lead him astray. When he asked if Dean wanted to stick around for a while, help him out with a few cases after this case was done with, Dean said yes. 


	2. Chapter 2

Several years later, after a death and a resurrection, Dean looked in a gas stop mirror at a handprint burned into his shoulder. He called the number again, and not for the first time since the his father gave it to him. He’d found, for once, he disagreed with his father. Constantine was abrasive, selfish, caustic and venomous, but Dean found it mixed well with his own tight discipline. The first few days of the first job had been difficult, learning to work around each other, with each other, but after they’d worked it out... they’d made a good team. The best team.

He got Chas’ voicemail, and he couldn’t help the sigh. “I’m alive again. Call this number.” He said, and didn’t think twice about not leaving his name. Constantine may be back across the pond, but Dean was secure in the knowledge he called often enough for a magical consult he’d recognize him.

He’d never told Sam about Constantine. He knew Sam wouldn’t like him. Sam was even more rigid about rules and morality than their father, weird psychic bullshit aside, and Constantine’s willingness to throw it all out the window at the slightest tip of the scale would make Sam despise him. Dean wasn’t keen to lose the dredges of his brother’s trust over John Constantine. So in the past, he’d called him when his brother went for food or coffee runs, made things quick, and caught up through email between cases. When John had gone back to the U.K., he’d gone to pull his brother to back him up. They made a good team too, but they didn’t have the easy understanding Constantine had allowed for. Constantine was predictable, so was Dean. They had similar coping mechanisms, sarcasm and alcohol. There was too much history between him and Sam to allow for the best teamwork, especially at first. Then later, they’d gotten better, despite all the bullshit that had happened over the years. Stopped questioning each other, if only to preserve what trust they had left.

He went to Bobby’s when he couldn’t get a hold of Sam. After a tussle, they settled in for a talk. “Sam’s phone isn’t working.”

“Well, he’s alive, but beyond that...”

“What? You don’t know where he is?”

“Things haven’t been easy, Dean. He took off.” Bobby was defensive, which Dean knew couldn’t mean anything good, but his brother was his responsibility. One that he’d trusted Bobby to take up when he fell.

A call to the cell phone company had the GPS turned on in his phone, and they were headed to Illinois.

“How much did it cost?” Dean demanded, after twenty minutes of staring at each other while Sam put his stuff together.

“What?” Sam was shocked, genuinely, but Dean got in his face anyway, pushed. Because there were very few people who cared enough to resurrect him, and Dean didn’t like the idea of the second option.

“How much did it cost to drag me back? Your soul? Worse?” He demanded loudly, mostly bluster. His brother didn’t know how it would have happened any more than Dean, it was plain on his face.

“I wish I had! I tried, Dean! I tried everything, I tried to make a deal, but no demon would barter with me. I’m sorry...” He’d started out angry, ended on insecure, and Dean backed off, sighing.

“It’s alright, Sammy. I believe you.” He said, and they sat down in the hotel kitchenette. “But that doesn’t explain how I’m breathing.”

“I might know someone who can help. A psychic.”

That didn’t exactly pan out.

After a blinded psychic and cryptic, disappearing Sam, Dean was done playing hide and seek. He had a name now, Castiel. And he was betting that Constantine didn’t have much to do with it, since the psychic would have been able to find that from her spirits. Which meant his frustration won out in a way that didn’t involve yelling at his old hunting partner.

With Bobby’s help, he summoned Castiel.

He was instantly glad Sam hadn’t been there, because there would have been awkward questions when the first thing out of his mouth upon seeing the silhouette cast by the trenchcoat was “John?” He’d been on his mind lately, and with suspicions high that he could be involved, it hadn’t been too far off the mark. Dean knew that John wasn’t exactly inept with the magical arts, and not all of it white and shiny.

He’d recovered quickly, when Cas had declared himself, but Dean did not miss the significant look Bobby gave him. He hadn’t mentioned Constantine to him either. Dean didn’t really talk about Constantine, too many people hated him for various reasons; sometimes he felt like he was the only one John hadn’t fucked over in a major way.

Bobby pulled him aside the moment he could get away with it. “You certainly didn’t think that was your Daddy, Dean Winchester, so what John did you think?” His tone said that he already knew.

“Nobody. I thought it... might have been him, so when I saw Castiel in the dark I associated it with my next best guess... but it wasn’t him and we know that now.”

Two months later, and in the midst of a cluster weird enough to make even Dean Winchester shudder --a depressed teddy bear with a gun? Really?-- John Constantine calls. While he’s in the car. With Sam. Dean clenched his teeth, but he opened his phone anyway. He’d been waiting for this call since he’d come back, and he’d be damned if he was going to miss it because he was worried about Sam Winchester’s feelings. It wasn’t like he’d given a shit about Dean’s lately.

“About time you called.” Dean answered with the good-natured aggression both of them knew he didn’t mean.

“Just cleanin’ up your bloody mess, luv.” The phone was loud, like maybe Dean was on speaker and John was yelling. Constantine sounded decidedly annoyed, but no more than usual, so the gut-punch of guilt was just the usual trade-off. Sam’s eyes darted up at the pet name, shocked.

“It’s not mine, John.” At the name, Sam looked at him sharply. The look usually reserved for their father, the name a reminder of him despite his death. The phone abruptly switched to a normal volume.

“Sure, Dean-o. It started in America, so you’re bound to be hip-deep in it.” He said dryly. “Seals to bring Lucifer to this side? He doesn’t even want to, don’t know why they bother.” He was muttering, and Dean waited until he started talking to him again. “So... a stint in Hell. Nasty. Welcome back.” He said, and the succinctness made the tension in Dean’s shoulders ease. John wouldn’t press wounds until they bled, no matter how bad, no matter if they needed to bleed out the infection. They both enjoyed festering.

“Thanks. Glad to be back.” Was all he responded. “Since you called, I could use some advice. We’re working something... fucked, in Washington. Magic that grants wishes, and then goes sour. We know it’s got to do with a wishing well in this chinese place.”

“Tricky spellwork that. Check the coins in the water. Probably an invocation or some such. Magic likes symmetry, so make sure the first person to wish is the person to fix it, yeah?” He said, and Dean nodded seriously to himself.

“Thanks again. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“See that you do. Can’t have you going and dying again, now can we?” Constantine’s voice held a smile.

“I’ll try to avoid it.” Dean’s tone was serious, and the line clicked dead. Dean smiled. John’s way of avoiding emotion.

“John?” Sam asked, and Dean shrugged uncomfortably.

“That geeky kid was the first one to get his wish, right? I think we need to get him to that wishing well.”

John was right, as he usually was with the magic stuff.

As they sat in a room at Bobby’s a few nights later, recuperating, Dean drinking coffee and checking his emails, Sam brought it up again.

“So... John?” He reminded, and Dean looked up.

“John.” He was hoping that would be the end of it.

“Who is he?” Sam pressed.

“A guy who helped me with some jobs while you were at Stanford.” Mentioning Sam’s sordid college venture was a low blow, and he knew it. Sam’s face got tighter, but he didn’t rise to the occasion.

“Weird to get a call from a guy you haven’t seen in over four years then.”

“We kept in contact. Talked once in a while. He’s in the U.K. now.”

“You’ve never mentioned him before.” Sam was starting to glare.

“Why would I? What’s with the interrogation?” Dean demanded, perhaps more hostile than was prudent. Sam sat back, his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, just... unless it’s Bobby or a case, you never get calls. And he helped with this case, it might have been useful to consult on others.” Dean’s eyes cast downward, suddenly, a tell his brother noticed in an instant. “Dean, you consulted him on other cases? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“No, Dean, that’s important! I have a right to know where we’re getting our information, what if he’d been wrong?” Sam demanded.

“We’d have still tried it, and he’d have been wrong either way. And don’t even get on a high horse, talking about what you have a right to know.” His voice was dangerously close to threatening. They’d been dancing around the ‘demon powers’ subject for the night, both preferring not to fight over it at least for a few hours, but Dean wasn’t afraid to drag it in.

“Why are you so defensive about him? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because he’s less hunter and more what we should be hunting.” Bobby said, and Dean jumped, looking at the entry to the kitchen with a tight jaw. “John Constantine hurts more than he helps.”

“Wait, I’ve heard that name... Constantine, that’s your John?” Sam said, his voice low, shocked, and definitely not good.

“He gets things done. I respect that. Anybody who dies--”

“Anybody he kills, Dean!” Bobby was quick to interject.

“Anybody who dies does it to save the majority.” He finished, repeating the statement with a firm, angry tone.

“He’s not a hero, Dean! He’s reckless, he doesn’t even try to find an alternate solution, he goes with the first thing in his head. Even if that will get people killed who don’t need to die!” Bobby argued, his lips thinning. “John Constantine has a blast zone, anybody near him gets caught in crossfire.” Bobby spat.

“John deserves better than this.” Dean said, slowly, and then stood up. “At least he does something, instead of sitting on his hands until it’s too late.” He snarled viciously, and Sam sat back, eyebrows up. Even Bobby rocked back onto his heels, surprised at the level of defense. Nobody he’d ever met held more than a passing ‘useful, but a last resort’.

“You shouldn’t get caught up in him, Dean. Others have, and they’re all gone, one way or another. When did you get on first name basis with Constantine? He’ll blatantly tell you he plays with dark arts and demons.”

“In case you haven’t noticed lately, we’ve been doing a lot of that too!”

“Do you want to end up like him?”

“He is one of the best men I’ve had the good sense hunt with, I should be so lucky!” That, at least, seemed to get Bobby’s jaw to snap shut in shock.

“Jesus, Dean. At least tell me he’s not coming here.” He said simply, and Dean scoffed.

“No, but if he did, I’d back him in a heartbeat.”

“So instead of blindly following John Winchester, it’s John Constantine?” Sam accused sharply.

“Constantine and I were equals.”

“Not to Constantine, the man could never admit someone might be as good as him.” Bobby said, with a scoff.

“Like hell!” Dean nearly roared. “He respected me, and we were a damn good team. We decided what to do and we did it. We took down things I never would have survived without him.” He snapped. “Don’t talk shit about Constantine to me, ever.” He took his beer and the laptop, moving out of the room before either man could say another thing.

“Is it as bad as you say?” Sam asked, and Bobby nodded gravely.

“If what Dean says is true? Worse. John Constantine makes what you do with your weird powers look like child’s play. Constantine will never sit it out if he really does give a shit about him. He’ll come find Dean, and that is the last kind of natural disaster I’d pick.”

“Why does Dean...? If he’s so awful...?”

“Constantine has a certain charisma. He makes people believe him. He knows what people need to hear and he says it, whether it’s true or not.” Bobby responded. “But honestly? I don’t know. Dean’s too smart to fall for a con, even a long con like this would have to be. I know that Constantine can’t be trusted farther than thrown, but Dean must see something in him. However misguided.”

“But Dean trusts him?”

“I guess he does.” Sam didn’t like the bewildered worry in Bobby’s voice.

“Then I guess we’re going to have trust Dean.” Sam said, and Bobby sighed. “Right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just don’t like it.” Bobby grumbled, but he was nodding. “You should go talk to him. He knew nobody would take kindly to Constantine sticking his foot in where it don’t belong, especially me. You might be able to get him to talk.”

“Nothing makes Dean talk until he’s ready. I’d have more luck with a brick wall,” Sam said sullenly. “I’ll let him cool off. Tomorrow he’ll go out early, work on his car, I’ll catch him in the afternoon when he’s in a better mood.”

“If you think it’ll work. I’m dead on my feet. I’m going up to bed before something else blindsides me.” Bobby grumbled, and headed upstairs. Sam headed for his room, but paused when he heard Dean’s voice from the study. He slipped close to the door, knowing he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something had been bothering Dean since he got back. Something he wouldn’t talk about. Sam wanted answers.

“--you didn’t do this, John. Tell me you didn’t deal for me.” He was saying, and Sam’s ears sharpened. Dean let out a sigh of relief, so he must have liked the answer. “No, I didn’t really think you had. This is just... fuckin’ weird, man. Angels? That’s your gig, I don’t want anything to do with it... No, I know... I wish you were here, you know how to make sense of cosmic bullshit better than us... I’m with Sam, you remember I used to talk about him, and Bobby Singer. He wasn’t too happy when I mentioned you.” Dean chuckled at something Constantine said, and Sam was a little worried about the fondness in that tone. “No, stay in whatever shitty apartment you’ve wrangled up. I’m fine, I can deal with this. Bobby already said you’re not welcome.” He gave a sudden cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but one he was trying to cover. “How many people did you manage to piss off, if you’re so eager to get away, huh? No, don’t you dare. John? John? Goddamn it!” Sam took this opportunity to show himself, leaning into the doorway. Dean looked up, and glared.

“Problems with your mage?” He asked. He’d heard of John Constantine, in the various seedy hunter haunts they went to for cases. The things he was rumored to have done...

“He’s apparently in the States again anyway, doing a favor for an old buddy of ours. So he might swing by.” Dean tried for casual, but they both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“Bobby’s going to kill you. Or him. Also, ours? Since when do you have mutual friends?” Sam said, sliding into a chair across from him.

“Since you fucked off, dad had shit to do, and I needed backup.” Dean’s face twisted into a snarl for a moment, and Sam sat back in surprise. Dean wasn’t himself about this guy, and Sam wasn’t sure if this defensiveness was indicative of something. “Think I don’t know how Bobby’s going to be? I told him not to, but when Constantine puts his head to something he follows through. He’ll bring Chas, at least. You’ll like him.” Sam and Dean looked at each other for a few moments, thinking, and Sam leaned to put his elbows on the desk between them.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Really?” He asked, and Dean sighed.

“Because you’ll hate him. Though, with your demon bullshit lately, who knows, maybe you’ll see the value in what he does.”

“I’ll never see the value in killing innocent people, Dean. What I do saves people. Is what Bobby said true?”

“Not entirely. Constantine would never hurt an innocent if he could avoid it, he fights the same enemy we do. He just... fights fire with fire, instead. He ends up with bigger players than we do, too, which should tell you that what he does has an impact we don’t,” Dean said, pointing aggressively despite the fact that Sam wasn’t yet arguing with him, “People get caught in the crossfire, but that’s not his fault. He’s been in a mental hospital for the past few months, he won’t tell me how long, but the last thing he needs is people accusing him of shit out of his control.”

“Was it? Out of his control?” Sam demanded, and Dean paused, sighing and running a hand over his chin.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Sam. We make them, and so does he.” Dean said, and Sam gave a humorless chuff of laughter.

“That answers my question, I guess,” Sam said, looking at the desk rather than his brother.

“Don’t fucking say a word to him if you can’t be civil, and that’s all I’ll say on it.”

“Jesus, Dean, what’s going on with you?” Sam demanded. His brother could be aggressive, but not this aggressive. Dean didn’t answer, instead standing and leaving. Again running away from a conversation. A habit Sam found himself sighing at more than actually caring. It’s not like he could run forever, they were usually in a car together for several hours at a time. There was only so long Dean could keep up silent treatments, and he usually got too frustrated to try for any length of time.

A full four weeks later, and Sam was getting frustrated. He stepped out to the yard, where Dean was elbow deep in the Impala. “He’s not coming, Dean.” He said, “We could be working right now. We could be helping people.”

“He’ll be here.”

“It’s been a month, Dean. We can’t wait around anymore.” Sam tried to be firm, but the crunch of gravel under tires, and then Dean’s vaguely smug look, made him clench his teeth. He turned slowly to see a cab trundling up, a large man bunched into the front seat. Beside him, a smaller blond man in the passenger seat, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he gathered things together into a bag on his lap. Dean stood straight, wiping the grease fastidiously from his fingers with a rag as he walked up to the cab in an exaggeratedly casual stride. He gripped Constatine’s hand in a firm shake.

“Good to see you.” He said, and Sam came over and tried not to glare.

“You too, Deano, sorry ‘bout the wait. Got caught up with something I couldn’t leave.” He said, and Dean nodded.

“What?” Sam demanded, a little more harshly than he’d meant, and it earned him a look from his elder brother.

“Oh, is this Sam then? I didn’t figure he’d be so tall. You always made him sound... Well, twelve, now I think of it.”

“Yeah, this is him.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder, but the taller man shrugged it off again.

“What held you up that was so important?” He demanded. He didn’t like the feeling crawling under his skin.

"A dying friend," The blond said bluntly. "A particularly nasty hunger demon by the name of Mnemoth got his claws in him."

"Why didn't you exorcise it?"

"It wasn't that simple, mate. This wasn't one of your everyday black-eyed small fry. Gaz knew, in the end. He wanted it to be him."

"What the fuck did you do him?" Sam said, horrified at the sacrifice of a close friend.

"What he had to." Dean jumped in before Constantine could speak.

"Right." Constantine said, after a beat of silence. "Nearest decent room? Since I'm sure Robby Singer isn't keen on me sleeping in his house."

"Decent? Planning on bringing girls back to the place, or decent enough to sleep in?" Dean asked, and Constantine smirked.

"I hadn't planned on girls, why, thinkin' about joining in?" He shot back. Sam braced for the inevitable uncomfortable back and forth while Dean got flustered and attempted to secure his masculinity. It never came, instead his brother just laughed.

"Yeah, right. Probably the Barley Field B&B, about five miles down the road."

“Good. Be back then.” He said, hopping back in the car and trundling off. Dean smiled, rubbing the back of his neck absently as he started to walk back to the impala.

“Dean!” Sam called, and he stopped, startled at the tone. “Are we not going to talk about this? He’s totally A.W.O.L. for a month, and then when he finally gets here he’s gone again?”

“Constantine works on his own timetable. Rushing things makes for more problems than it solves.” Dean said calmly.

“You’re one to talk, you rush into things all the time!”

“Not with magic.”

“And that’s another thing; I still don’t know about working with a magician, Dean. Not only that, but he just left his friend to die--”

“Sam, shut your mouth. I’m not going to argue about this.” Dean cut him off, and Sam nearly screamed behind his teeth as he turned tail and walked off.

“No use arguing with him, Sam. He’s been drawn in to Constantine too deep for that.” Bobby said, from the doorway. “No point in trying to get him to change now. He’ll either figure it out on his own, or he’ll die for John like all the others who bit it the same way.” Bobby’s tone was bitter, condescending, and Sam’s hackles rose.

“I’m not letting him die, Bobby, even if he’s too blind to see it coming.”

“Ain’t got much choice there. You’re forgetting that he’s already dead.” Bobby grunted, and then went back inside. Sam was starting to get really annoyed at all the people in his life who walked out in the middle of conversations. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are king, guys! I love to hear from readers!


	3. Like a Fungus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Information is shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHHHH MY GOD y'all I'm so sorry it's been so long. This is a fairly short chapter because I need to get in the swing of things again. Fingers crossed it won't be so long until the next update, but honestly I'm in the middle of college (still) and I can't make promises.

When Constantine got back, Dean was by his side in a moment, conversing in murmurs that Sam couldn't hear, but found questionable anyway. 

"You look like you've been sucking a lemon." Sam didn't jump, but it was a close thing. He finally understood the frustration of being snuck up on by a man as large as Chas and himself. 

"I haven't exactly heard favorable rumors about Constantine." Sam grumbled, and Chas laughed, genuine and loud. 

"I could say the same for you!" He said, humor in the tone. Sam gave him a confused look. "Your reputation isn't sterling, too many people hear Winchester and think of your dad. He wasn't stellar when it came to working with other people." Chas said, not unkindly. "Older hunters say he was good at what he did, but even they didn't want to partner with him."

"Yeah, dad..." What could he say about their father? He let the sentence peter out, sighing. "Fine, I see your point." Chas chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder and going to peruse Bobby’s library. Sam grumbled, going to find a beer. This, quite accidentally, put him in range of the conversation happening between John Constantine and Dean in the little office, even if they hadn't noticed him. 

"...get that feeling, under your breastplate and behind your knuckles, like you could--" 

"Best not to dwell, Dean."

"But do you?"

Constantine let out a sigh that was more tired than annoyed. "For me it's in my fingertips, behind my eyes... a ringing in my ears. Yes, I get it. Everyone who's gone to Hell gets it somewhere. If you let it, Deano, it'll eat you alive." Constantine clapped him on the shoulder, pressing down on it as if to ground the younger man, but even after the camaraderie had bled from the action the hand stayed. Neither man said anything of it, but Dean’s hand snaked around his wrist like it was the only thing keeping him sane. Sam felt guilty, suddenly; this wasn’t a moment for him, wasn’t a moment he should’ve imposed on, even if neither of the other two men knew. 

He walked back the other way, sitting next to Chas. “So, how did you end up following Constantine?” He asked. There was something happy, easy, about Chas Chandler that Sam approved of. It was the opposite effect of his companion; Constantine made him feel oily and corroded. The two balanced out, at the least. 

“Hm? Oh, it's a long story. He's not so bad, you know.” 

“Not what everyone else seems to think.” 

“Well, I can't blame anybody for not liking him. He's not _nice_ , and he's got a knack for finding the most awful way to say an already awful thing. But actions speak louder. He saves lives. I help him.” 

“So you're a team, but he's the leader?” The question got a laugh out of him. 

“Like Constantine lets anyone tell him anything. Nah, he runs the show, and I'm fine with that. All the magic goes a bit over my head. I've got my tricks, sure, but the heavy-hitting stuff? That's all John.” Sam was quiet for a bit, thinking about his words. 

“Dean said they were equals.” 

“Hm? Well, I don't know. They were off doing their thing in a time I wasn't there for John. I was in the middle of a divorce. Couldn't wander over everywhere. Your brother could, I take it, and did, so I hear.” 

Bobby walked in with a six pack then, plunking it down on the coffee table between them. “Chandler. Good to see you. Maybe you can reign in that prick in the other room, keep him from making it worse.” Sam expected a defensiveness, but instead Chas just got an easy smile. 

“Do my best, don't I?” 

“Far as it goes.” 

“My ears were burning, you lot talking about me?” Constantine entered, Dean at his right shoulder, though the taller man looked distinctly less pleased about the topic of conversation. 

“Not much else to do with you gossiping like a knitting circle in there.” 

“Don't take it too hard, mate, it's a very exclusive knitting circle.” 

“ _So,_ what are we going to do about this resurrection business?” Dean cut in, before anyone else could find a tangent. 

“What did your fine feathered friend say about it? Rare that an angel can get to earth, let alone fight his way through the Pit.”

“A bunch of nothing. Cryptic bullshit about me not thinking I deserved to be saved.” 

“Hah! Well, makes two of us, eh?” Constantine said, and Dean smirked. Sam sat straighter, ready to defend Dean if not John, but Chas tapped him on the knee and shook his head. His eyes said _choose your battles._ It was a look he understood, if sullenly. 

“Well, I may be able to give you a bit more’n our feathered friend, at least. Back home there's demonic cannon fodder converging on every known seal keeping our world free of the real demons. Mnemoth was a product of one, I'd rather not deal with another. Of course, most are fair taken care of by the Angel types, so we needn't worry for most, but 666 is a lot to guard.”

“What's the end goal?” Sam asked, and here the mage looked uncomfortable. 

“It's hard to say.” His eyes flicked to Sam, and neither brother missed it. 

“We can trust him, John.” Dean's hand brushed up against his leg in a swift, thoughtless gesture, just the backs of his knuckles, and the strangeness of the act, his brother willingly initiating contact aside from a brisk handshake, set his teeth on edge. Something was being deliberately kept from him. 

“My loyalty isn't in question.” Sam growled, and Constantine gave him a careless look. 

“I'm questionin’. I don't know what you got inside you, but it feels blacker than I care for.” 

“You're one to talk, some of the black magic you've been linked to.”

“True, but at least I know what I'm doing.” 

“No one knows what they're doing!”

“Oh, well, least you can admit you've no clue, is that it? Or is it just everyone but you that hasn't a clue?” Sam opened and closed his mouth, taken aback at the sudden bluntness. 

“Someone is teaching me. She knows.”

“You're a handy looking weapon, aren't you? Just point and shoot.”

“John...” Dean looked resigned. He'd been hoping Constantine might end up at a point, as he sometimes did, but he also had a specific way of saying his name that brought him back on topic from his tangents. A cross between tired, coaxing, and chiding. He was well aware that if put on the defensive, John would rile someone up just to see them pissed off, and often by going off at the mouth. Dean was effective at pointing him back in the right direction. 

“Fine, fine. They’re trying to pop the cork on Hell, let Lucifer back into our world.” This declaration was met with silence. 

“How... do you know?” 

“Well, it’s not the first time they’ve tried it, is it?” Constantine said, like it was easiest thing in the world, and took one of the beers thusly untouched. 

“I take it you know something about the last time?” Chas said, almost disinterested, and John sighed. 

“After a fashion, sure. I’ve had a word or two with Old Scratch in my time. He decided that it wasn’t in anybody’s best interest to be doing anything too rash, considering a few alternate obligations. Apparently, something’s changed. If we want to figure out why demons are going after seals, we’d best figure out what that is.” 

“And you know how to do that.” Sam asked, and Constantine’s laugh was caustic. 

“Oh, haven’t a clue, but that’s what we’re goin’ rounds about, isn’t it?” 

“What help _are_ you, again?” 

“ _Sam_.” Dean’s growl wasn’t offering debate, but Sam found himself wanting to, anyway. He _didn’t_ , but he wanted to nonetheless. He was proud of his ability to compartmentalize, to focus on the bigger problem. He wasn’t about to throw that out the window over John Constantine and his brother keeping secrets. 

To his surprise, it was Constantine who took up that mantle. “ _Dean,_ ” he murmured, barely audible, but weighty. Sam was starting to develop a tick in his jaw, and he wondered exactly how close they’d been, why they weren’t telling anyone else about it. Sam could understand, somewhat, not telling him, but Chas looked confused for a moment before he shrugged it off too. 

He exhaled through his nose slowly. 

“Any road, I’ve been informative so far, have I not?” Constantine said, pointedly back at Sam, and he shrugged, nodded once. “You don’t have to like me, Winchester. But don’t get it mixed on who’s helping who.” 

“Alright, alright, let’s break for the moment,” Chas said, closely following the statement, as if he could make it less aggressive by sheer force of will. “John obviously needs a cigarette.”

Dean hauled John outside, their heads put together again, though Dean looked distinctly less pleased with him this time, and Sam almost missed the heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Bobby, who gave him a significant look, and then walked out of the room again. 

Chas, for his part, smiled just a bit apologetically. 

“He grows on you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of you who've stayed along for the ride. Hopefully a new chapter will be up sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and Comments are much, much appreciated!  
> Any errors you see I would greatly appreciate you letting me know. I don't have a beta, and once I write it I like to post it before I think too much about it.


End file.
